


Red Lights

by paperlesscrown



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Aspiring Lawyer!Betty, Bartender/Writer!Jughead, F/M, Jughead is an awesome brother, Multi-Holiday Fic, Mutual Pining, New York AU, Strangers to Lovers, reverse slow burn, smut with feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:53:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21935533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperlesscrown/pseuds/paperlesscrown
Summary: A blonde walks into a bar and orders a drink. Fireworks and banter and flirting ensue. Typical so far.But when Betty and Jughead unexpectedly end up together in bed on Christmas morning, the story goes awry.Because neither of them regrets it.And despite everything - her caution, his skepticism - neither wants to stop.
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 111
Kudos: 282
Collections: Bughead Secret Santa





	1. of all the gin joints in the world...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theheavycrown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theheavycrown/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine."_ -Rick Blaine, 'Casablanca'.

The apartment wasn’t hers.

That was Betty Cooper’s first thought when she opened her eyes on Christmas Eve morning, nausea dulling her senses and her mouth feeling as though it had been stuffed full of cotton. 

_Ugh._

A hangover. Perhaps only the second ( _third,_ she mentally corrected) in her relatively short and uneventful drinking life. The first was the morning after her high school graduation; the second, her sister’s twenty-first birthday.

And now, apparently, here it was - her third one, in all its queasy glory. Here in some random, unknown apartment.

She groaned, mostly with the sheer effort of forcing herself awake, but also partially with a vague sense of regret. She _always_ made it home. She was never the type to stay out and end up somewhere she couldn’t immediately place. Despite the bright lights of New York coaxing every pretty young thing towards its sins, _she_ never gave in to them. She was Betty Cooper. She had plans and health insurance and a spare MetroCard.

Fighting the pounding in her head, she looked around, trying to take stock of the place. She could surmise at least that she was in someone’s living room – one she had no recollection of having ever seen before. Her eyesight was poor, but she could make out some details: a coffee table overladen with a messy pile of books, a dying cactus, framed vintage film posters on the wall, and red fairy lights strung up on the wall, in the shape of a tree. 

She was about to get up and look for the bathroom when she heard a kettle whistling.

Someone else was here.

Suddenly wary, she reached into her pocket to try and find the tiny can of pepper spray Veronica had given her (“Just in case, B,” her friend has said). She thought it was a little silly at the time: pepper spray couldn’t pull a gut-busting self-defence move like _she_ could. But she was not exactly at her physical peak this morning.

So, pepper spray it had to be.

She managed to find it, there amongst all the coins and pens and stray tube of lip ointment in her pocket. She was about to whip it out when she realised something.

Her coat.

It was still on.

She looked down. The light tan of her favourite work coat stretched out before her as she lay sprawled out on a couch. It was buttoned up, the belt firmly buckled at the waist. In fact, everything – her jeans, her black turtleneck, her silly reindeer print socks – was still on, save for her scarf, which was folded up on the armrest, and her boots, which were propped up neatly on the floor not far from the couch. 

Whatever situation she had ended up in, she was at least fully clothed.

“Uh, yeah, sorry - the shoes had to go.”

A voice cutting through the silence. Betty looked around. Her vision blurred and sharpened as it went in and out of focus. She fought the urge to hurl. _Focus, damn it._ The voice, as far as she could tell, was male. With a slightly apologetic (and slightly bemused) tone.

She rubbed her eyes, frustrated at herself. “I’m s-sorry, what?”

“Your shoes-- boots, I mean. I took them off.” The guy’s voice came a little closer. “I hope you don’t mind.” 

Her vision finally slid into place. She looked up and recognised the source of the voice.

A concerned, intense pair of blue eyes met hers, which peered out from under a dark, messy set of locks. Despite the fact that she’d first seen them in the dim glow of an underground bar, she still knew those eyes here, in the faint light of morning. She’d locked onto them immediately after he told her that the cocktail menu was “absolute shit”, and that she shouldn’t waste her time on it.

Fast forward to a few hours later, and she was standing with him behind the bar, and those same blue eyes crinkled as he laughed at her repeated attempts to flip a bottle with one hand - just like he’d taught her.

Yep. _Those_ eyes. How could she forget? 

And that name, too.

“Jug…” she tested out, before clearing her throat. “Jughead.”

He smiled with what she suspected was relief. “I was afraid you’d forgotten that.”

“How...” She paused. _How could I?_ That’s what she wanted to say. A handsome bartender, a night that took an unexpected turn, and the hardest she’d laughed in a long time. _How could I forget?_

But there were more pressing matters at hand. 

So instead, she asked:

“How did I end up here?”

...

Meeting Jughead Jones was _not_ the beginning of the story - far from it. It all started with a headline Betty nearly missed, tucked innocuously in the Society pages of the _New York Times._

The previous day had not started out well. Betty worked as a paralegal for Brooklyn Legal Services - a nonprofit organisation that provided free legal assistance to the local community. Her workday began early and busy, with preparations for a custody hearing taking up the majority of her time from 6 am onwards, before having to brief the client and turn up to the hearing itself.

As usual, it drained her emotionally. Custody hearings were always difficult, even for the most hardened of lawyers and paralegals. But it was a case she’d worked on from the beginning, and she wanted to keep seeing it through. 

When she exited the courtroom later that afternoon, her mood was decidedly sombre: the hearing had ended inconclusively, much to her disappointment, and a later date had been scheduled. She only perked up slightly when Veronica Lodge - her fellow paralegal - met her at the entrance with a croissant and her usual coffee order. They made their way back to the office with Betty quietly eating her croissant as Veronica ranted away - something about a misplaced affidavit and some poor unfortunate intern that had to cop an earful that morning. It wasn’t exactly the cheerful chatter she was hoping for, but at least it stopped her from thinking too much.

Betty wasn’t expecting to be cheered up at the office, either, but she couldn’t help but hold out hope for a little _something_. The optimist in her was irresistibly buoyed by the Christmas season, by the cheery decorations dotting the city and by everyone’s seeming insistence to enjoy the holiday spirit. The firm’s receptionist, Kevin Keller, had even done his best to lift the office’s mood by decorating the waiting area with fake holly, fairy lights, and fresh poinsettias on every conceivable surface. 

But problems were problems, and despite Kevin’s best efforts, the mood at the legal centre was predictably dour. It was crowded, filled with discontented murmurs and desperate people. Betty saw a few clients familiar to her, and she would have waved at them, but none of them were making eye contact. She couldn’t blame them, either: spending the day waiting for free legal help could not have been easy, and she supposed that - like her - no -one was really in the mood for a chat. They needed far more than decorations for that.

_A miracle,_ she thought. _We all need a Christmas miracle._

Veronica suddenly nudged her. Betty looked up as she undid her scarf and saw Kevin fastening a sprig of mistletoe over his desk - one of many that dotted the area. The two women turned to each other with a knowing look of amusement.

“Feeling hopeful today, Keller?” Veronica called out to him, dodging one sprig that hung a little too low.

He sighed theatrically. “If only,” he replied. “I’m out of options for the holidays, girls.”

“Awww, come on,” Veronica said. “What about that nice hit-and-run client we met last week? Joaquin... something? He was promising.”

“Oh yeah, he was promising, alright.” Kevin laughed humourlessly and pointedly at Betty, to which she merely rolled her eyes. “But just my luck, a certain _someone_ just had to be assigned on his case, so guess how quickly _that_ wrapped up.” 

Betty laughed. “Kevin, I can’t fall behind my work on purpose just so we could hold your crushes hostage.” 

“Girl, you totally can. You work faster than everyone else here.”

“I have to. I need Attorney McCoy to sign off on my law school application.”

“Oh, please - you have that in the bag,” Veronica said, beaming with pride. “When do you have to send that off, anyway?”

“After Christmas. CUNY’s closed for the week.” Betty sighed. “I really, really want it, you guys.”

“And you’ll fucking get it,” Veronica said. “I _feel_ it in my bones. Don’t you, Kev?” 

“Oh totally, Betts, you got this,” Kevin affirmed. “And then Princess Park Avenue over here will need to do all your work.”

Veronica visibly bristled. She didn’t like having her privileged origins thrown in her face. “Excuse you, as if _I_ don’t have enough work--” 

“Oh, geez, relax, I was kidding,” Kevin said, but he wasn’t done teasing her yet. “When are you leaving us for all those big Manhattan firms, anyway?”

“When my gross father gets his greasy fingers out of them,” she snapped. “Which, by the way, is _never._ ”

“That’s how he’s stayed unprosecuted for tax evasion for so long, right?” Betty asked, trying to distract Veronica from Kevin’s ribbing. 

“Yep,” Veronica replied. “Which, honestly, is just bizarre. The money he spends on paying everyone off could just be spent, you know, actually _paying_ his taxes. In fact, I’ll _bet_ paying taxes is cheaper.” 

“That’s bad business,” Betty said, smiling. 

“Uh-huh, bad business,” Veronica echoed. “If I didn’t hate him so much, I’d just take over and run the empire for him. I’d do it all legitimately. And _profitably._ ” 

“I have absolutely no doubt that you would,” Betty said, bumping her fist against Veronica’s.

“So, uh, would schmoozing with Bella Hadid be part of running that empire?” Kevin suddenly asked, stirring his coffee. “Because I totally want in.”

The two girls turned to stare at him. “Kev, what are you talking about?” Veronica asked. 

Kevin looked puzzled. “ _New York Times_? Society pages?” The girls looked blankly at each other then shrugged at him. “Jesus, don’t you two ever read the paper? Journalism’s _dying_ , you guys. It needs us!”

“I have a subscription,” Betty replied defensively. “But it’s online, and I don’t read the Society pages.”

“Ugh, should have known that.” Kevin picked up the day’s copy of the paper and flipped to the Society section. He held it up to Veronica. “There - Veronica, your parents were pictured with the Hadids.”

“What?! Let me see that.” Veronica snatched the paper from him and read the headline out loud. “ _‘Lodges Unite With Hadid Clan Ahead of Fashion Institute Charity Ball.’_ Oh, fuck off - he _hates_ the Hadids! He calls them “ _nouveau riche_ trash”, and her dad’s descended from a goddamned prince. What the hell is he pulling?”

“Sweetie, I have no idea,” Kevin replied absentmindedly. “But my oh my, look at your _mother._ Who’s she seeing for those lips? Kopelman? Rapaport? The work is flawless.”

Kevin and Veronica traded small gossip back and forth as they assessed the Hadid-Lodge situation and Hermione Lodge’s face. But Betty hardly heard them, because a smaller headline, right at the bottom of the page, had caught her attention: 

**_Alice Smith Takes Book Tour and Panel to NYC_ **

_Cult whistleblower schedules appearance at 92Y_

_Alice Smith._

Betty's blood ran cold.

The sight of her mother’s name, suddenly strange and unfamiliar with the glaring absence of the surname they once shared, felt like a sudden punch in the gut. 

But that wasn’t what jolted her the most. Betty already knew that her mother had officially reverted to her maiden name. It was the name that Alice had signed on all the documents Betty had served her - the ones that legally bound her to never mentioning, referring or alluding to her second daughter in the tell-all book she was about to write.

(“So, what - am I supposed to just write this and pretend you don’t exist?!” Alice had bawled at her. 

“Shouldn’t be too hard for you, Mom,” Betty replied quietly, before walking out the door of her old home.) 

No, it wasn’t that. More pressing, more awful was the fact that Alice would be _here_ . Within the same state. The same _city._ Betty had painstakingly avoided the sight of her mother since the day she’d served her papers, and now, here she was, taking up space in the very place where she had sought and found refuge. 

It made her feel sick. 

And _furious._

Veronica looked up, noting Betty’s silence, and noticed her pale demeanour. “Whoa, B, you okay?” 

“I, um…” The room swayed. Air. She needed air. And an excuse. “I don’t know, it, uh, might’ve been… might’ve been the croissant.” 

“Oh my god, really?” Veronica looked aghast, the thought of inadvertently giving her friend food poisoning appalling. “Do you need something? Water, maybe?”

“No, no,” Betty replied. “I just need to get out. It’s stuffy in here.”

“I can walk with y--”

“I’m _fine_.” Betty held her hands up. She didn’t mean for that to sound so abrupt. Kevin and Veronica exchanged concerned looks. “Don’t-- I’m sorry. Please. I just need to go.”

“Okay,” Veronica conceded. “Where are you going? You have your phone on you?”

“Yeah, I got it.” Betty chose to ignore the first question. It was irrelevant. She just had to get out.

“It’s charged?”

“It’s at 30%, but I’ve got a power bank in my bag.”

“Okay. Well, make sure you use it.”

Betty nodded. She felt a little bad for snapping at her friends, especially Veronica. She gave them both a quick hug before re-tying her scarf. 

“I’ll be back soon,” she said.

“Call us if you need us!” Kevin yelled after her, but she had already walked out the door and into the cold of a New York winter.

...

Betty had no idea where she was going, but she didn’t care. In Brooklyn, the streets were never quiet, and the white noise of the bustling borough was actually comforting after the shock of seeing Alice’s name in the _Times_. 

She took a few seconds to stop, breathe, and look around. Steam vapour was rising from the ground, and over it, bare trees lined with undisturbed snow rose gracefully over the avenue, forming a tableau that to her always felt magical. For a moment, she remembered why, like so many other souls before her, she had left her home to come here _._ The Big Apple - so foreign to everything else she had known growing up - was unpredictable, chaotic, and indifferent to the swarming masses that passed through it. But to those who scraped and survived and insisted on planting roots within it, it gave true grit and courage. That’s what it did for her.

But now, her mother’s presence loomed in the distance, and all her old anxieties were resurfacing. And though she knew that neither of them would actually reach out to each other, it still bothered Betty. New York was _hers_ . And now, Alice Cooper - _Smith,_ rather - was tainting it. 

Anger flared up in her again, and despite the iciness of the streets, she picked up her pace.

_I need a drink._

The thought surprised her. She wasn’t normally a drinker. But then and there, it felt like the most natural balm to her frustrations - a quiet seat at a bar (it was, after all, the Monday before Christmas Eve), with no-one to bother her, and a long time to think. 

She unlocked her phone to look for the closest establishment. Brooklyn wasn’t exactly flush with options, not in the same way that Manhattan was, but from what she could see on Yelp, it had a modestly thriving scene. Apparently, many of the better places were underground, marked by a plain, nondescript door that one had to keep a careful eye out for, or guarded by an elusive password. 

The closest bar to Betty, however, could not have been more obvious.

It was right across the street from where she stood. A giant mural of a young, red-haired boxer next to a punching bag stared down at the avenue, flanked by other works of graffiti. It spanned the length of three storeys, and below it was a simple sign: “C&B”, and a black door.

The Crane & Boxer.

There it was - the #3 bar in the area, according to Yelp.

Betty crossed the street and stood in front of the door. There seemed to be no-one else around. She felt a little apprehensive walking in - was this _really_ in the top three bars in the vicinity? The door creaked when she wrenched it open, and it sounded as though it was about to fall off its hinges. For a moment, the sudden darkness she was plunged into disoriented her, until she noticed a light - a small, kooky lamp with a construction hat lampshade - leading her down a flight of stairs.

It was like falling down a rabbit hole. When the darkness finally melted away, she felt like she was in a new world. The bar was a throwback to an older New York - the kind that Frank Sinatra sang of, in all its brawling muscularity and bravado. Stately leather lounges dotted the area, as well as a number of industrial stools, all under low, amber lamps. Louis Armstrong crooned jazzed-up Christmas songs over the stereo system. The walls were exposed brick, decorated with various black and white pictures of construction sites and workers.

_Cranes, like construction cranes,_ Betty intuited. She glimpsed a poster of Muhammad Ali. _And boxing._ A construction and boxing-themed bar. Unusual.

But the centrepiece, of course, was the bar itself: a long, dark oak-panelled setup flanked by an impressive wall of liquor and a row of empty stools. The place was open, but it looked completely empty, until she saw a young, dark-haired man crouching behind the counter, seemingly putting some glasses away. 

She sidled up to the bar and pulled out a stool. Not wanting to disturb the man, she grabbed a nearby cocktail menu. The list was impressive in sustaining the bar’s central conceit: they were all boxing or construction related. She smiled to herself, unable to resist admiring the dedication to theme. There was the Left Hook (mezcal, Grand Marnier, coffee liqueur and muddled fruit), the Beam (Jim Beam with soda water, rosemary and lemon juice), and the Uppercut (basically an updated Cosmopolitan). 

“If that’s the cocktail menu you’ve got, I’d throw it away.” 

Betty was startled by the voice coming from behind the bar. “Um, I’m sorry— what?”

“The cocktail menu.” The guy behind the bar stood up. “It’s absolute shit.”

Betty wasn’t sure how to respond, for two reasons. One: she had no idea how any decent bartender - or anyone - could be so self-deprecating, so dismissive of their own work. 

And two: it had been a while since she’d been around anyone she found so immediately arresting.

There was no other way of putting it: the guy was _incredibly_ easy on the eyes. He moved about with an easy grace as he put wine glasses away. He was tall - much taller than she was, by her estimation. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing a tattoo on each forearm: a small crown below the crook of his right elbow, and a small hawk in flight on the other. Against his black jeans, his suspenders hung down on his sides in a way that suggested boyish neglect rather than deliberate rebellion, and the various scuffs on his shoes seemed to affirm that.

_Then again,_ Betty thought, _he_ did _just take a shot at his own work._ Maybe he _was_ a rebel.

“Oh, um,” she finally replied, scolding herself for taking so long. “W-why do you say that?”

“Because I put it together myself weeks ago,” he said, tucking a bar towel into his back pocket. “And _this_ week, I’ve realised that it’s actually shit. And I want to change the whole thing.” 

Betty smiled. “You’re a little hard on yourself.” 

“Yeah, well, call it the curse of someone who’s a writer-slash-bartender.” He flashed her a smile. “You never stop editing.”

Betty brightened. “You write?”

“I _try_. Freelance. Digital, mostly.”

“That’s really cool,” Betty said. She used to write in the high school paper herself, and still dabbled in poetry every now and then. “What was the last thing you wrote?”

“Oh, some filler piece for Buzzfeed to pay the bills. It was terrible. You don’t want to know. In fact, I kind of want to forget the whole thing myself. _Anyway._ ” He leaned over the counter. “What can I get you?”

Betty noted that the guy made a habit of pushing his dark hair aside, so unruly was it that it kept falling onto his forehead. In the low light of the bar, she also noticed that his pale blue eyes had a little bit of green in them. 

_Focus,_ she thought. _Pick a drink, you idiot._

“I, uh…” She was flustered. She picked up the menu, then pushed it away, remembering that he’d told her to disregard it. What _was_ one supposed to do with their hands?! She ended up clasping hers on the dark oak of the bar counter. “What do you recommend? Other than the cocktails?”

“Well,” he said, looking around his space. “We’ve got a few good wines… some boutique ciders in tap... a mead from up in Williamsburg.” He tapped his chin. “Or…” 

“Or...?”

“Actually, nah." 

She was intrigued. “Aww, no, come on. Tell me.”

“I can... make you something from the new menu I’ve been working on.” 

“Oh! You can?” 

He shrugged. “Only if that’s okay with you. It’s far from ready. I’m still perfecting the mixes. I’ll charge you half-price.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that to—“

“Nah, I insist,” he said, whipping the bar towel out of his pocket. “The owner won’t mind, and I don't even know if these are any good. I’ll make you something depending on what you usually like.”

She gave a short laugh. “I don’t usually like _anything_. I’m actually not much of a drinker. It’s...” How could she put this? “It’s just kind of been a rough day.”

“Ah.” He paused for a moment, seemingly taking that in. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that.” 

She waved off his concern. “It’s okay. You really don’t have to do… you know, that.”

He looked puzzled. “Do what?”

“ _That_. The whole bartender thing.”

He cocked his head. “What whole bartender thing?”

“Oh, you know. I kind of just assumed _everyone_ tells you their problems. And honestly, I don’t want to burden you with my bullshit.” 

He was quiet for a while. Betty assumed her sudden vulnerability had pushed him away. _Great,_ she thought. _So much for small talk._

But unexpectedly, he leaned forward, close enough that she could smell the leather notes of his cologne, close enough to note the constellation of moles on his left cheek. He looked her right in the eye. Her heart was pounding.

“Listen: telling someone you had a rough day isn’t a burden,” he said. “And you don’t really need to tell me anything more beyond that. I’m just here to make you a drink. You could talk, you could be quiet - I don’t mind either way, but your presence here _isn’t_ a burden. To me or to anyone. Okay?” 

_Holy shit._

It shook Betty. Partially because of how close he was. But mostly - the gravity of his words. The _safety_ in those words.

What had she just walked into?

She didn’t know how to respond. She couldn’t _trust_ herself to say anything coherent. Luckily, he spoke up first.

“Well, um, assuming it’s okay,” he said, leaning away from the counter, “would you prefer something sour, or something sweet?”

Betty weighed up her options. There was a shift in the air. For the first time in her miserable day, she felt like she could breathe a little. Allow herself to exhale. And it had nothing to do with the alcohol she was about to drink, or the freedom in her anonymity in this place.

It had everything to do with the man standing before her.

She decided to be a little bolder. Sat up a little straighter.

“I’m, uh… I’m sorry, what was your name again?” she asked.

“Me? Jughead. And I know. It’s weird.” He grinned wolfishly at her as he extended his hand. “Yours?”

“Betty.” She took his hand, feeling the rough calluses of his fingers, the warmth of his skin. “Betty Cooper.”

“Alright, Betty Cooper,” he said. “What’ll it be? Sugar or citrus? Sweet or sour?”

“Sweet,” she said, smiling back at him. “I’ll take something sweet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How DOES she end up in that apartment?! Anyone want to take any guesses?
> 
> I hope you have enjoyed this chapter so far! Thank you, truly, to every soul who cheered me on in writing this. I have such deep affection for this story already, and I hope you stick around <3
> 
> Suffice to say, it won't be spoiling much to say that there's physical stuff that comes early on (keep an eye out for Chapter 3). But there's a deeper story in and amongst all that. I've always been interested in Jughead and Betty's individual trajectories and how beautiful and TIMELY their connection is, and this story, essentially, is about THAT. It's a story about timing. And I hope you can join me in digging into that.
> 
> I am nothing without my betas and readers. To Jandy and Mella, thank you for your amazing work looking over this and patiently sticking with me in times of confusion, questioning and putting up with my constant need for dialogue. To K, Panda, Lurker and A92, thank you for reading ahead of time and telling me it wasn't awful. Hahaha.
> 
> Jughead's POV to follow soon, in Chapter 2!


	2. the golden ratio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"In nature, many physical and biological systems have structures showing harmonic properties. Some of them were found related to the irrational number ϕ known as the golden ratio, which has important symmetric and harmonic properties."_
> 
> _"Just about every cocktail recipe combines three main ingredients, or what is known as the bartender's golden ratio: alcohol, of course, which forms the base of your drink; a sour ingredient, such as lemon or lime juice; and a sweet ingredient, such as simple syrup or triple sec. When these basic ingredients are combined in a balanced way, magic happens."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has a Spotify playlist, which can be found [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5010SP64svE0ibMdrCwGBO?si=3OHB3Xe6RmGD5Npu5wLYgA).

“Andrews, literally _two_ people showed up this morning. I’m telling you, man, we gotta close early.”

Jughead crouched behind the bar counter, his phone wedged between his shoulder and his ear as he shifted wine glasses around the shelves. His friend, bar owner Archie Andrews, was staying out in New Jersey, and Jughead was holding down the fort for him. The Crane & Boxer was actually Archie’s baby - a joint business venture with his father, New York construction magnate Fred Andrews. Being a champion welterweight boxer meant that Archie was often away training or on title fights, and so he often trusted Jughead to run the place, keep inventory, and attend to the books. 

But Archie wasn’t out of a town for a fight this time around. In fact, he was chasing a girl.

“Jug, please, I _promise_ I’ll be back tonight,” Archie pleaded. “Come on, bro, you know I’m good for it. You just gotta keep it open ‘til I get Josie in.”

“Arch, let me remind you once again that this bar isn’t your… I don’t know, your personal boudoir, or something.” Archie laughed at that. “Dude, I’m serious. You’re essentially paying me to stare into space here. It’s not good for business.” Jughead yanked another crate of glasses out. “And Josie - what the hell? What’s a famous singer doing with you out there? In _Jersey_?”

But Archie was in too much of a good mood to rise to Jughead’s sarcasm. “Hey man, she called _me,_ ” he said _._ “She’s shooting a video for her new single, and she wanted me to come and, you know… hang out.”

“Again, I reiterate: in _Jersey_?”

“What? She wanted to do it on the boardwalks. I just came up here to see her.”

“That was three days ago!”

Archie sighed. “Jug, come on. Josie... she’s different, okay?”

Jughead rolled his eyes. Of _course_ Josie McCoy was different. That was Archie’s unifying criteria for every girl he’d ever dated. Val was different. Geraldine was different. Ginger, Amesha, Harper… they were all different _._ Every single one was _the_ one. It wouldn’t have been Archie courting if his degree of certainty was dialled down below 10.

But Jughead had to admit that he envied Archie’s earnestness sometimes. Having spent nearly his entire adult life wondering whether his parents were better off divorced - not to mention counselling his sister Jellybean from heartbreak to heartbreak - he couldn’t help but be a skeptic in love. And along with Archie’s constant determination to fall in love, the utter fuckery he’d seen while bartending had turned him off relationships, too. The so-called “game” looked exactly like that - a mere game, something to be rigged and to lose and to get hurt in.

No: that love shit wasn’t for him. At least for now. He’d rather stay on the sidelines.

“Hey Jug,” Archie said. “You there?”

But who was he to boo the action while others played? He sighed. He was going to regret this. Mentally, he calculated the amount of overtime he was going to have to log in - but then again, at least he was making some decent coin. 

“Alright, lover boy. What time you coming up?”

He could almost hear Archie grin over the line. “We’ll be there by nine at the latest. Hey, I owe you, man.”

“I work for you. You _always_ owe me.” Archie laughed as Jughead hung up, just as he heard the scraping sound of one of the bar stools being pulled out. _Well, fuck me,_ he thought. _A Christmas miracle._ A customer had actually shown up.

He took a moment to stack up a couple of glasses before getting ready to serve. When he heard the customer flipping through the bar menu, he couldn’t help it - he had to speak up. The various Post-It’s that he’d stuck to the back of the counter - lists, possible recipes, new spirits he wanted to work with - spoke to his obsession with overhauling the drink list - an obsession, he realised, that was an attempt to channel his creativity _somewhere_ while his own writing stagnated. He relished any opportunity to talk about it.

“If that’s the cocktail menu you’ve got,” he called out, “I’d throw it away.”

“Um, I’m sorry— what?”

A female voice. That was odd. He usually had start-up tech bros or college kids with fake IDs around this time of the day. _This should be interesting,_ he thought.

He didn’t see her right away when he stood, as he was still busy cleaning things up around the counter. But when he finally turned and looked at her, he immediately regretted doing so.

Logically, he _knew_ that the blonde perusing the cocktail list was sitting right under one of the lamps over the counter, and that its light was painting her aglow. But he couldn’t help but think that she was _actually_ golden, iridescent as she was against the backdrop of the darkened bar. The sight of her immediately made him want to go back in time five minutes before she walked in - to brush his hair, tuck his shirt in, clean his scuffed shoes, and generally not be a mess. 

Because she was beautiful. And though theoretically he didn’t buy into all that love bullshit, he still felt like he wanted another chance to make a first impression on this girl.

They exchanged small talk, and he watched her closely as they talked. She was impeccably dressed - as put-together as he was casual - with her coat buttoned up and her hair up in a bun, although he saw that a few tendrils had started to come out, perhaps undone by the wind. He surmised from her outfit that she had probably come from work, and he wondered briefly what kind of corporate entity would set up their headquarters on _this_ side of Brooklyn. But he figured that wherever she came from, whatever she did, she was probably really good at it. She just had that vibe.

But she also surprised him. As strong and capable as she presented herself - or rather, as she should have been, looking like _that_ \- her presence in the bar still registered as odd. A girl like this should have had the world at her feet. What the hell was she doing alone in a bar, before 6? On a Monday night? _Two days before Christmas_?

She didn’t tell him - not yet, at least not directly. But as they continued to converse, it kind of just… spilled out of her. Like she’d been waiting to say something, and only needed someone to ask.

“I kind of just assume _everyone_ tells you their problems,” she said, her voice laced with bitterness, after he offered to make her a drink. “And I don’t want to burden you with my bullshit.”

 _Ah_.

There it was. Jughead looked at her - _really_ looked at her this time - and was shocked to realise that this girl, beautiful and strong and golden though she looked, still carried herself with the same uncertainty as _he_ did. Why else would she be here, at this time, on this day? 

(And while he was at it - why else was he working on a fucking _bar menu_ when his own draft novel sat untouched on his laptop?) 

He felt himself drawn deeper into her. And - beyond her beauty, beyond that kindred melancholy that seemed to tie them both in this moment - he wanted to figure out what that was all about.

“Your presence here isn’t a burden,” he said - gently, compassionately. “To me or to anyone. Okay?”

Her eyes lit up, before she looked away, as if not trusting herself. His own lungs loosened, and he realised he’d been holding his breath.

He would realise later, in retrospect, that she had stolen it.

...

“Alright, Betty Cooper,” Jughead finally assented, rolling his sleeves back up. He liked the way her full name sounded in his mouth. He liked the way she blushed less each time he said it, the way it was becoming more familiar to her. And he _especially_ liked the way she pushed her half-empty glasses towards him, tempting him to drink the rest. 

“Your turn?” she asked, one coy eyebrow raised.

It had been more than an hour since she’d walked in, and in that time, he’d made her a couple of cocktails - the first, a stock-standard lime-infused take on vodka, and then the second, one that was really firing on all cylinders, one that any bartender would have recognised as a clear attempt to impress: handcrafted batch gin, elderflower, smoked lemonade... the works. Betty had drunk half of each and kept insisting that he have the rest, given that he was only charging her half. Jughead had resisted, until now. 

_What could it hurt?_ he thought. A few drinks close to Christmas on the ol’ Andrews tab wouldn’t be too bad. 

Besides, the conversation was clicking and whirring and loosening as each minute went by, and he found himself surprised by the easy banter between them. He found her infinitely interesting - gorgeous and passionate and sincere, self-deprecating in just the right measure and _funny,_ her wit cutting across his in a way that few others’ could. 

He threw up his hands in mock-surrender as she kept nudging the drink towards him. “You’ve muscled me, woman,” he said, shaking his head. He picked up the glass, tilted it in a toast, and slammed the leftovers down. Betty heartily applauded.

“That’s the spirit,” she said, grinning. “Pun _fully_ intended, by the way.”

“Oh- _hooo._ She has bartender jokes now.”

“Ah well, it’s only because I’m sick of legal beagle ones.”

He raised an eyebrow, impressed. “You’re a lawyer?”

“Paralegal,” she corrected. “So… not quite there.”

Jughead narrowed his eyes. “I sense an unspoken ‘yet’ in that sentence.”

Betty looked up and shrugged enigmatically. He gave her a knowing smile, happy to have guessed right.

“Congratulations,” he said. “Columbia?”

Betty scoffed. “You kidding? I can’t afford that.” She fiddled with a napkin. “CUNY.”

“Nice,” he replied. “I know a couple of guys there. Good place.”

“Yeah, well…” Betty laughed nervously. “I gotta get in first, right?”

“Oh,” Jughead waved a hand dismissively. “Come on. You will.” 

“How do you--”

“You will,” he said. “Just, you know... a feeling I get from talking to you.”

She was quiet for a while, her finger lightly grazing the rim of the glass - the one he’d just drunk from - as she studied him. “I’m not drunk enough to ask yet,” she said, “but before I leave tonight, you’ll have to tell me what you mean by that.”

Jughead gave her a lazy half-grin. “You don’t have to be drunk. You can ask me now, you know.”

“I could,” she said, reaching for his empty glass and clinking it against her own, “but I don’t want to leave just yet.”

Jughead masked his elation, arranging his face in a carefully neutral expression. “Oh?” 

“Mmm. Nah.”

“You, uh, want another drink?”

“No,” she said, getting up from the stool. “I think I want to _make_ you one.”

...

“So.” Jughead flipped a highball glass expertly in one hand and turned to Betty. “Your basic cocktail is made up of three components, or what every bartender calls the golden ratio: a strong, a sweet and a sour. That means a strong alcohol component, a weaker, sweeter one, and something sour and citrus-like, like lemon or orange. You following so far?”

Betty nodded. Her coat was off now, and she had untwisted her hair from its bun. Jughead couldn’t help but look at her a little longer each time they spoke. The combined flush of the alcohol she’d drank and the bar’s heat had made its way to her cheeks, and he thought it made her look radiant.

She was behind the bar with him - close enough that he could take in her scent, close enough to count the piercings in her right ear (three). When she’d asked him earlier to teach her how to make a cocktail, he couldn’t help but give himself a little mental fist-bump. This was prime time - a chance to properly impress someone who had already made an impression on _him_. Pouring drinks was one thing, but he had a few other tricks up his sleeve. 

“It takes a while to figure out what goes with what,” he continued. He placed the glass onto the counter and in one quick motion, grabbed a bottle of Neptune Rum from the speed rail below and flipped it up, twirling it in the air and catching it before pouring the liquid straight in. “But we can start with rum, which is an easy one. Any guesses what we could make with this little beauty?

Betty raised her eyebrows and gave him a surprised smile. “Alright. I’m gonna ask because I’m impressed and intrigued. What was _that_?”

“What?”

“That!” she replied, laughing. “The hands with the flipping and the pouring! What the _hell_ was that?”

“Oh. That.” Jughead grinned. He found that he didn’t even need to fake his modesty. Though he’d intended to impress her, there was still something about her keen gaze that made him feel genuinely bashful. “Just, um, a couple of tricks I had to learn to get tips.”

“Oh god, do people not tip you?” She looked positively aghast, as if the idea of someone being pointedly rude to bar staff was utterly foreign. 

“I mean, it’s more like insurance,” he said. “People _usually_ tip, especially here, because they know the owner is a bigshot boxer. But I always like hedging my bets. Hence, the tricks.” And because he was feeling lucky, he screwed the bottle lid close and flipped it right back into its spot - a reversal of his earlier trick, one he had learnt only recently. He silently exhaled with relief when it landed. 

“I see,” she said thoughtfully. “So, do these tricks take long to learn? I mean…” She nudged his shoulder playfully with hers. “Could you teach me?”

Jughead laughed. “You can’t even make a cocktail and you’re asking if you could _flip a bottle_?”

“What?!” Betty laughed with him. “Why not?”

“Basics first, Betty Cooper,” he said, relishing the feel of her name once again, the way it rolled around like liquid on his tongue. “I’ll teach you the fancy stuff later. If you still happen to be around.”

It was more of a question than anything. A hopeful, throwaway line. Thankfully, she looked right up at him and replied simply, “I’ll be around.”

“Alright then,” he said, with a sideways smile, picking up the glass he’d just poured into and holding it up to her nose. “Now, come on. What does that remind you of? What have you had before that kinda smells like that?”

Betty stepped towards him and the proffered glass. Jughead was suddenly conscious that they were closer than they’d been all night, and looking at her, she seemed cautious. He felt it, too. The bar counter had been a safe barrier between the two of them, and now that it was gone - now that they were on the same side, and in closer proximity than they’d ever been - he felt a little more conscious of his own body, and where it stood in relation to hers. 

Their eyes met, and they both quickly looked away. Betty tilted her head down towards the glass, and took a deep breath, seemingly to distract herself. “Um, sorry, what was I meant to be smelling for again?”

“Memories,” he said. “Things you’ve had before.”

“Oh.” She gestured towards the glass. “May I…? Can I taste?” 

“Sure.” Jughead held it out to her, and in the brief second when the glass passed between them, their fingers brushed. He tried to ignore that it was the first time they’d actually touched. 

“Well?”

“It tastes like… summer,” she said, a wistful look on her face. “Like the sun breaking in.”

“Very good,” he said. “And, might I say, poetic.”

“Mmm. And between us, I’m not even the writer.”

“Ha. _Aspiring_ writer.”

“Oh, like how I’m an _aspiring_ lawyer?”

He contemplated that. “Never thought of it that way,” he said. “I guess we’re on that same boat, huh?”

She chuckled ruefully. “Two New York drifters just wanting a different day job?”

“Nah,” he said. “We’re both dreamers, Betty. Like everyone else in this damn city.”

…

Betty swung her legs as she sat on the counter. She wasn’t anywhere near drunk, but after making and tasting one too many bad mojitos (and one decent one that Jughead had finally deemed acceptable), she definitely felt a little more loose and relaxed - enough that she felt comfortable enough to take a seat up on the oak countertop. A few other customers had come in, but once they were served, they usually retreated into the darker corners of the bar, which meant that she and Jughead were pretty much left alone.

She had to admit that she liked it.

She stared at him as he sliced up some fruit for his _mise en place_. The knotted muscles of his forearms were in full view, and his stubborn forelock fell forward again and again, which he eased back into place before finally giving up, leaving it (and her) undone. 

What was she doing here? It had been hours since she’d arrived, and she had no plans yet of leaving. There was something here that made her stay. Maybe it was the fact that the Crane & Boxer felt like a world away from the New York that she knew - the one that her mother was going to invade in a few months. Or maybe it was what he’d said about her: that speaking to her gave him no doubt that she’d get into CUNY… which, by the way, what the hell did he mean by that?

She tried to ignore that she was pointedly refusing to acknowledge the other, obvious reason. 

Jughead looked up from his fruit at her and caught her staring. Instead of looking away this time, she kept his gaze. 

“You good?” he asked, smiling. 

“Yeah,” she said. 

“Good.”

He kept on chopping for a while. 

“Sooo…” she began, “was that mojito actually good, or were you just trying to make me feel better about my sub-par mixing skills?”

He scoffed. “I don’t bullshit anyone, Betty,” he said. “Least of all kickass paralegals who can smell bullshit from a mile away.”

She laughed. “Fair enough. Well, I’m glad.”

“Good. I taught you well.” He gave her a coy, teasing look. “After about, oh, ten failed tries.”

“Oh, shut up.” She threw a napkin at him. 

“Make me, then.”

Betty’s eyes shot up, meeting his own surprised gaze. He was seemingly shocked at how easily that came out of him, and how quickly their banter turned flirtatious. 

He cleared his throat, attempting to walk it back. “You know, if… if you want to.”

She bit the inside of her cheek to try and stop from full-on grinning. “Yeah, I think I’ll pass on that.”

“Oh, yeah?” He sounded a little disappointed. 

“Yeah,” she said. “‘Cause I like us talking.”

Jughead looked at her for a while. “I like talking to you, too, Betty.”

Betty felt her stomach doing somersaults, and she shuffled a little in her seat as he returned to his chopping, suddenly self-conscious. _Say something,_ she berated herself.

“Um,” she began uncertainly. “So... have you been bartending for long? I’m sure writing’s your first love, right?”

“If by that you mean the thing I like doing more, then yeah, sure,” he said, wiping his knife clean on his apron. “But I’ve probably been bartending, in a sense, for much longer.”

“What - like, as a kid?”

“I mean, yeah,” he replied, shrugging. “It’s kind of one of the very few upsides of growing up with an alcoholic father - you learn how to mix drinks early on so that it’s watered down, but still somehow tastes decent.” He chuckled at that, then stopped when he saw Betty’s horrified expression.

“Oh, god, I’m sorry,” he said. “I kind of forget those jokes are weird for people.”

“No, no,” Betty stammered. “I… it just sounds awful, Jughead. I’m so sorry.”

“Nah, don’t be,” he said. “He’s been sober for a little while now, and I’ve been with Al-Anon since I started college, so it’s all good.”

“Al-Anon?”

“Oh, kinda like AA, but for family and friends of alcoholics,” he said. “You’ve never heard of it?”

Heard of it? Betty had never even considered that one could find solace and healing without running away, much less find it in _others_ who were similarly inclined. She wondered what that felt like: to be free of the baggage and trauma inflicted by one’s parents. Or at least to _wear_ it rather than having it wear _her._

“Hey.” Jughead put his knife down and stepped towards her, suddenly concerned. “You okay? You went quiet there.”

“My mother wrote an autobiographical book that I forced her not to mention me in,” Betty blurted out, those weighty words slipping out so easily and _she had no idea why_ , why now and why to _him,_ of all people. “And now she’s coming here. To talk about it whilst pretending I don’t exist. Because I asked her to.”

Jughead was standing right in front of her, silent - his gaze calm and steadying and unrelenting even as she felt herself pooling into a mess. In her mind, a chorus of disbelief: _I’ve never said that to anyone._

“Is that why you came here today?” he asked.

“Pretty much.”

He sat up on the countertop with her, close enough that their knees touched, close enough that Betty wondered, for one aching second, if he would take her hand. For a moment, neither of them spoke. 

“Jughead, how do you do it?” she asked. “How do you carry that? How do you become…” She sighed. “How do you become _okay_?”

“Fuck. Who says I am?” 

She gave a bitter laugh. “Well, you’re not drinking alone at a bar two days out from Christmas.”

He was silent for a while, before bending down and peeling off a Post-It off one of the bar shelves. He held up to her, and she read the writing: _Smoked paprika, sage, maple syrup = goes with white rum._

“What’s this?” she asked.

“What I’m working on most days instead of my novel,” he said, with a wry smile. 

Betty took the note from him, reading the words over and over again. 

“The thing is, we’re all running from something, Betty,” he said. “My novel is mine, and I’m trying to figure it out. But I’ve realised that… as long as I’m not losing sight of myself, it’s okay to run once in a while. Because somehow, I know I’ll always make it back to me. I don’t know _how_ yet, but I know I will.”

“Gosh, I wish I had that faith.”

“You do,” he said. “That’s why you applied for CUNY. You made a bet on yourself. And it’ll pay off. I promise.”

“How do you know?”

“The same way I know you’ll get in,” he said. “Because while you may think you’re escaping, being here in some random bar with a stranger, you’re not fooling me: you are stronger and more focused and more determined than you think you are, Betty Cooper”.

Betty stared at him. How many times had he done that to her tonight - spoken straight to her soul, dismantling everything that made her feel like she was burdensome or broken or alone? How did he know that she needed to hear every single thing he’d said to her in the few hours they’d known each other? 

“Oh, and one more thing,” he added quietly, his shoulder against hers as he leaned in to whisper in her ear. “You’re _not_ alone. You’re here with me. I’m not much, but that’s gotta count for something, right?”

She turned to face him. “You’re more than that, Jughead.”

Her eyes scanned his face and settled eventually on his lips, which now parted as she, too, leaned in, no longer able to resist the pull between them.

 _This,_ she thought, watching his eyes close, feeling her own flutter shut, _has got to be the strangest, most unexpected Christmas present ever._

...

“Jug?” A familiar voice echoed from the stairwell. Footsteps, excited clamouring. “Yo, you here, bro?”

Jughead shook himself as though from a spell. The moment burst. He and Betty jumped apart, disrupting the kiss that had been a certainty just seconds ago. 

_Fuck fuck fuck._ He silently cursed Archie.

She hopped off the counter. “Who’s that?”

“My best friend. Also my boss.” _And currently the world’s greatest cockblock._

“Should I--” She motioned to leave, but he could tell she didn’t want to, either.

“No!” That came out a little shouty, but he felt desperate. But he didn’t want her to leave yet. “No,” he repeated, a little more rationally. “I want… I want you to—“

“Juuuuuuuuuug!” 

They both turned to the entrance, which framed the man whose very image was muralised over the bar outside: Archie Andrews, his red hair bright and messy as usual, his arms outstretched in an invitation to embrace, and a huge grin painted on his face. On his arm, the very girl he’d promised to bring back to the bar.

Betty leaned in and whispered incredulously, “Oh, my god. Is that--”

“Josie McCoy, yes,” Jughead whispered back. “And please don’t ask me how this happened. It vexes me.”

Archie made his way over to Jughead and pulled him into a bear hug. Behind him, Josie lingered, and a steady stream of people made their way in, filling the tables and chattering excitedly amongst themselves. 

“Hey, thanks for this, buddy,” he whispered. 

“Thanks for what? Who the hell are all these people?” Jughead whispered back furiously.

“Josie’s crew. Don’t worry, man, I got this.”

“‘Got this’?” Jughead stepped back. “And who, may I ask, is making them drinks all night?”

Archie grinned sheepishly. “I was kinda hoping… you?”

Jughead groaned. “Archie, no. Fuck.” He looked over at Betty, who was standing to the side, seemingly misplaced. “I’ve kind of got… something happening here.”

Archie looked over at Betty. “Oh, shit. Really?”

“Uh, yeah. Really.”

“Nice. Um, okay, okay...” He clicked his tongue. “How ‘bout we strike a compromise? Drinks for two hours and it’ll just be bottle service after that? And then you can go.”

Jughead held firm. “ _One_ hour.”

“What! That’s--”

“It’s that, or you can call someone else right now.” Jughead started taking his apron off. 

“Alright, alright, alright, geez,” Archie said. “One hour.”

“Good,” Jughead replied. “Give me a second.”

He turned to Betty. He didn’t even know what he wanted to say. Or what he _felt._ He just knew that he couldn’t let her go just yet. 

“Stay,” he said. 

She looked around. “I… are you sure? I don’t want to be a nuisance.”

“You’re not. I promise.” It flew in the face of all logic, and the more rational part of him asked him if this made sense. But he didn’t care. “Are you okay to hang around?”

His heart leapt when she didn’t hesitate at all in her reply. 

“I’d love to, Jughead.”

…

_Where are you?!?!!!!!!_

_Should I call the police_

_ARE YOU WITH SOMEONE_

_Is it a guy_

Betty smiled as she saw Veronica’s texts coming through. She typed out a reassuring message (“I’m safe, V, talk soon xx”) before putting her phone away. 

“Hey, is this seat free?” 

Betty whirled around and was flabbergasted when she saw Josie McCoy - singer extraordinaire, hip-hop ingenue - standing next to her table, drink in hand.

“Um, of course.”

Josie held her hand out. “I’m Josie, by the way.”

Betty shook it. “I’m Betty.”

“Cool,” Josie replied. “So do you know these guys well?”

Betty looked over at Jughead behind the bar, his stubborn forelock falling forward again. He looked up briefly from measuring out gin and locked eyes with her. He nodded at her and mouthed, _you okay?_

 _Yeah,_ she mouthed back, smiling.

“Sorry,” she said, a little embarrassed to have been caught while being distracted. “What were you asking again?”

Josie laughed - a little too knowingly, Betty thought. “I was just wondering if you knew the guys well.”

“Oh,” she said. “Not Archie.”

She looked over at Jughead again - at this point, it was getting harder and harder not to.

“Jughead,” she said. “I know Jughead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's title comes from the mathematical concept of the "golden ratio". I certainly don't pretend to be a mathematician, but from my very limited understanding of it, it is a concept relating to harmony and symmetry - all of which apply to Jughead and Betty here. They're now deeper into their meeting than they had initially anticipated, and they're reeling from the potency of their connection. That's what I hope I've conveyed here, at least! 
> 
> Additionally, what I've always loved about Bughead is how _clearly_ Jughead understands Betty - her light, her strength, her darker moments. It's immediate here, because Jughead understands himself in this particular iteration of his character (which is a very S4 thing), and hence is able to pick Betty apart, and be drawn to it. Betty's getting there, too, as referenced in the final line. On another note, this Jughead has been so much fun to write, because he's just so confident - unresolved, sure, but certain of himself.
> 
> Explanations for waking up in Jughead's apartment are coming up in Chapter 3- don't you worry!
> 
> This was also a fun way for me to explore Archie and Josie together. I am normally a Varchie shipper, but the New York connection with Katy Keene seemed too fun to not explore. Also, Josie's character deserved so much better! Sigh. #damnitRAS
> 
> Apologies for Jughead's New Jersey snobbery - one that I don't share, I promise! :)
> 
> All of Jughead's bar tricks and recipes were lifted from bar menus from Brooklyn (The Featherweight was a particular inspiration for the Crane & Boxer!) and YouTube tutorials.
> 
> Al-Anon is a real thing! And is doing some incredible work with family and friends of recovering and non-recovering alcoholics. 
> 
> Thank you for your patience between chapters! The Christmas break was far more hectic than I had anticipated, and bouts of writing were few and far in between. I'm hoping that the next chapter is a little less delayed.
> 
> As always, thank you, thank you, thank you for reading. xx


	3. earth upon earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"There are more things in heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." -Hamlet_ , William Shakespeare
> 
> _"If I were rain,  
>  That joins sky and earth that otherwise never touch,  
> Could I join two hearts as well?”_
> 
> -Tite Kubo

The room was swaying, and Betty was swaying with it.

It was one of those nights that could have only happened in New York - an impromptu crowd of impossibly cool people, a famous singer holding court, a renegade PA who swore that he could run down the road and grab a set of speakers from his DJ cousin, and, all of a sudden, a makeshift dance floor alternating between N*ER*D and The Roots and Josie’s latest hit album.

And of course, somewhere along the edge of the room was the tether point of Betty’s sight line - a busily working Jughead, who was holding down the fort singlehandedly, even with an extremely thirsty crowd. Betty marvelled at his flair and efficiency - the way he poured a straight line of tequila shots with minimal spill, and the ease with which he flipped and twirled bottles to the delight of Josie’s sizeable entourage.

Whenever he had a free moment - which was rare - he’d scan the room for her, and he’d always nod and smile and check if she was okay. He would hold up his fingers to indicate how many more minutes he had left - four fingers and a closed fist for 40 minutes and so forth, to which Betty also smiled. Josie openly watched the two of them, smirking quietly into her drink, while Betty actively pretended not to notice.

Josie, to Betty’s surprise, was unexpectedly affable - friendly and down-to-earth, so different to the cool, avant-garde image she presented in her music and in the media. They quickly bonded over Betty’s paralegal background, as it turned out that Josie’s mother was also a practicing attorney (“I try to keep it on the down low,” she laughed, “to keep my street cred”). Her warm conversation immediately endeared her to Betty, and soon they were laughing and chatting like old friends. 

“So,” Josie began, when they reached a lull in their conversation, “what’s the go between you and, uh… what’s his name?” She flicked her eyes subtly towards Jughead, who was shaking up a cocktail.

“Oh, Jughead?” Betty sipped her drink to try and stifle a smile. “Uh… not much, really. We just met today.”

Josie scoffed. “Oh, come on. No.” 

Betty laughed nervously. “What? We did.”

“Seriously. You did _not_ just meet today. You’re kidding me, right?” Josie laughed and shook her head, then realised that Betty was serious. Her face fell, almost comically. “Oh. You’re not.”

Betty tried to disguise her raging curiosity with what she felt was a casual laugh, which came out a little more shrill than she’d intended. “You, um.... thought we’d known each other longer?”

“Uh, _yeah._ The two of you are vibing. Hard.” Josie tucked one of her dreadlocks behind her ear as she leaned forward conspiratorially. “I actually thought we, uh, _interrupted_ something there when Arch and I walked in.” 

_You did,_ Betty wanted to say. Her lips still felt the ghost of the kiss she could have had with Jughead. But she wisely kept quiet.

“ _That_ didn’t feel like a new connection to me,” Josie continued. “It felt… more grounded, you know? Like earth. Solid. Rich. It felt real. Besides, didn’t he ask you to stay behind to wait for him?”

Betty nodded and swirled her straw in her near-empty glass. She didn’t really know what to say to that, mostly because it felt true. One moment she was ordering a drink, then the next, she was neck-deep in conversation with Jughead, falling deeper into his ocean eyes, telling him things she’d never told anyone. Heck, she’d never even told _Veronica_ about her mother. The people at her work vaguely knew that her family life was a mess, but no-one had ever really bothered to ask. It was almost like everyone else was busy building their own mythology, and had assumed that _she_ was, too. That felt like an unwritten rule - that whoever you were outside of the city, whatever you started with, it ultimately didn’t matter. This was New York. You could be anything now. You could be _anyone_.

But talking to Jughead somehow made that all irrelevant. She didn’t have to _become_ anyone. She could just be herself.

“Heyyyy Josie! You having fun?!”

Archie’s voice floated out of the ether and snapped Betty back into the room. He was whispering something into Josie’s ear, making her giggle, and suddenly Betty had a wild need to look for Jughead, wherever he was. To reassure herself that she wasn’t alone in this crowd, but more urgently, to tell herself that what happened earlier wasn’t an illusion. 

She looked towards the bar, expecting to see him pouring drinks.

She wasn’t prepared to see him embracing another woman.

Betty flinched. A slight, auburn-haired girl was folded right into his arms. Jughead seemed surprised to see her, but ultimately delighted as he hugged her closely to himself behind the bar. He whispered something into her ear. They pulled away from each other and started talking, the girl using her hands animatedly as Jughead looked on intently.

The ground felt like it was giving way beneath her. _Of course,_ Betty thought. She looked away swiftly, suddenly feeling stupid. _Of course_ Jughead was seeing someone. How could he not? A guy like _that_ in Brooklyn? Handsome, smart, charming, witty, holding down a steady job? He was practically gold. Catnip, even.

 _This was a mistake,_ she thought. The whole evening was a mistake. She felt embarrassed by what she had assumed, her mind cleared of everything Josie had just told her. He probably talked to girls like her all the time - pulling the same moves, showing off the same tricks, probably even making the same drinks. 

Suddenly, it felt urgent for her to leave. She cringed at the memory of their conversation - the intimacy it had, the vulnerability she felt. She’d felt so exposed, but more frighteningly, she’d felt _safe_ with him. The usual warning signs - the red lights that glared in her brain to keep her in her lane - all switched off when she was with him. 

She felt like an idiot. It was all a game. And now, all she knew was that she had to _go_. 

She grabbed her bag and started putting her coat on.

“Hey, it’s Betty, right?” Archie held out his hand to her as Josie lingered at his side. Betty froze mid-step. She turned on her heels, shaking his hand in a daze, trying not to let on that she was about to leave.

“Uh, yeah,” she said. “That’s me.”

“Archie Andrews,” he said, with a flourish, “at your service.”

“Oh, of course.” Despite the situation, Betty couldn’t help but smile at his earnest charm. “My workmates all streamed your last match in the lunchroom. They’re huge fans.”

“All in a day’s work,” he said, flashing her a media-ready grin. “And you? You must be a writer or something, right?”

“Um, no.” That was an odd question. “I’m... sorry, why do you ask?”

“Well, my boy over there...” He pointed at Jughead. “...seems to be a huge fan of you for some reason. And he only likes writers. Actually, I’m pretty sure I’m his only non-writer friend.” 

Betty smiled tightly. This was making it worse. She couldn’t bear hearing that Jughead liked her. Not right now. 

“No, just a paralegal,” she said.

“A paralegal?” Archie let out a hoot. “My boy’s flirting with the _law_? Holy shit.”

He looked over at the bar and gave Jughead an exaggerated thumbs up. Jughead looked wary and gave him the finger. Archie laughed.

“Actually, on second thought, I probably shouldn’t be pissing him off right now,” Archie said a little more quietly. “He’s always a little on edge when JB comes around.”

Betty raised an eyebrow. “JB?”

“JB. You know. Jellybean? Constantly heartbroken, brilliant otherwise…?” Archie narrowed his eyes at Betty as she shrugged helplessly. “His sister...? Wait, how long have you two known each other?”

His _sister_. 

Betty winced at her own stupidity as the room seemed to spin. Besides what she could now retrospectively see to be the platonic nature of the embrace, the resemblance in their features was obvious, despite the difference in their hair. She was conscious of both Archie and Josie and the common etiquette demanded by their social situation, but all she wanted to do was to sink to her knees in relief.

“They’ve known each other since today, actually,” Josie volunteered, winking at Betty. “Ain’t that something?”

Archie turned to Betty. “Whoa, serious?”

“I mean,” Betty stammered, “it was just us in the bar, and we were talking--”

“You were _talking_? Damn. Getting a proper conversation took me at least four months.” He laughed, then reached down to his pocket, taking out a vibrating phone. “Ah shit, it’s my trainer. I have to take this. You two mind?”

Betty and Josie assured him it was no trouble. One of Josie’s assistants bounded up to her excitedly and started chattering away. Betty looked back at Jughead and Jellybean. He was mussing her hair playfully, and she was rolling her eyes and swatting him away like any self-respecting younger sister would do. It made Betty smile. 

She suddenly became conscious that she was still holding her coat and bag, ready to leave. Turning back to the booth, she placed them down decisively. 

When she turned back around, Josie was holding a tray of miniature glasses. “Shots?” she asked mischievously, as Josie’s entourage peeked from behind, looking expectantly at her.

Betty’s heart was still pounding from the adrenalin of her emotions. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jughead and Jellybean hi-fiving before parting ways. That drop of relief in her stomach hummed again, and she felt silly and giddy and desperate to loosen up all at once.

She met Josie’s stare dead-on, and exhaled a long breath. “How many?”

…

“Hey, dickhead. You busy?”

Jughead nearly fell over when he heard Jellybean’s voice behind him, with its signature sass and acerbic Jones wit. 

“JB! The fuck.” He hugged her tightly. “What are you doing here?”

The moment the question left his mouth, Jughead already knew the answer. He and Jellybean had grown up relatively apart, having chosen to go separately with their parents. But they always knew to seek each other out in a crisis, like when things were bad with their father’s drinking, or when their mother was on the brink of gambling their college funds away. They often joked about it, saying they didn’t have catch-ups: they had _summits._

And this - Jellybean’s mascara-streaked face, her shaky demeanour - had all the usual trappings of a summit.

“Usual shit with Ricky,” she said, mumbling into his shoulder. “Pour me a drink, dude.”

“Oh, come on, are you seriously in a state to--”

“Like _water_. Jesus. I’m dehydrated from crying.”

Jughead smiled at that. She still had her wits about her, at least. He poured her a glass and handed it to her. “Alright. What’s going on?”

He patiently listened as Jellybean recounted her latest, make-it-or-break-it fight with her boyfriend, Ricky. It was always the same: they fought over the most trivial things, swore never to see each other again, and ended up stumbling back into a passionate reunion. A year ago, Ricky had even proposed in an ill-advised bid to win her back. Jellybean, had, of course, said (or rather, screamed, blubbered and squealed) a resounding yes. Jughead, on the other hand, secretly thought they’d never make it down the aisle. 

“And it’s just… I just don’t _get_ it, you know?” Jellybean said, her voice breaking. “If he was so upset about me looking after this dog, then why did he even _get_ me one?”

The dog. Of course. Hot Dog. Another terrible move by Ricky - a bid to win Jellybean’s heart after a particularly nasty fight. Neither of them knew how to take care of the poor boy. Jughead was already unconsciously preparing to adopt him in the very likely situation that the relationship would fall apart.

“Well, _are_ you looking after him?” Jughead asked quietly.

Jellybean threw her hands up. “That isn’t the point, Jug!”

“Well,” he said. “It kind of is.”

She crossed her arms and set her face in a stony stare. “How?”

“I don’t know - maybe, subconsciously, he just wants to know that you’re capable of taking care of the stuff he’s given to you. A dog, an engagement…” Jughead shrugged. “His heart.”

Jellybean made a face at him. “Ew. Are you drunk?”

“No!” He laughed. “I’m giving you advice. Isn’t that what you’re here for?”

“Yeah, but you’re usually like--” She took on a bad imitation of his voice. “ _Fuck this, JB, fuck relationships, fuck love, ner ner nerrrrr.”_

Jughead swatted a bar towel at her. “Oh, fuck _you_.”

“I’m serious! Whatever happened to all your long lectures on how you’re gonna be the one packing my shit when me and Ricky are done, how you’re gonna adopt Hot Dog, walk him through Central Park - all of that? Where’s _that_ Jughead?”

He had a witty retort on hand, but he paused momentarily. After all, wasn’t he just rolling his eyes earlier that night when Archie asked to essentially give away thousands of dollars of alcohol and labor just so he could impress a girl? 

And now, hadn’t _he_ just performed an inordinate amount of flair bartending stunts just to impress a girl, too?

“Look, I’m just... ” he sighed. He looked into his sister’s eyes, and though he was initially looking for a way to sidestep her pointed questions, something deeply protective stirred in him. “I’m just looking out for you, Jellybean. Maybe… maybe it’s not such a bad thing to try and fix things with Ricky rather than just coming here all the time and... you know, activating the trademark Jones bitterness.”

She was quiet for a while, before seeming to concede his point. “I really hate when you’re right.”

“Which is all the time.”

“Shut up.”

“ _You_ shut up. I’m brilliant. And by the way,” he added, “I’m _still_ taking Hot Dog on walks. Whether or not you and Ricky work your shit out.” He crossed his arms smugly. “You know that dog loves me.”

“He really does, the little goober.”

Besides, Jughead had already replayed the daydream a couple hundred times: walking Hot Dog through Central Park, eating a lox and bagel, reading a book, alone with man’s best friend. 

And _happy._ He would be alone and happy. That was the dream.

Except, this time, he wasn’t thinking that. Which was now making him nervous.

He was wondering if Betty was a dog person.

...

Jellybean left a little later for her nursing night-shift, telling Jughead she’d catch him at Christmas dinner, during their usual holiday FaceTime sessions with their parents (always separate and _always_ their mother first - that was the rule). He checked his watch as she headed for the exit. 

_Ten minutes._

He hadn’t seen Betty in a while. He surveyed the bar, which was dimmed more than usual. How the hell did it get so dark? When did the strobe lights come in?

And why was it so _loud?_

The bar counter was empty, and nearly everyone was too drunk to serve. Jughead figured he could take off a little early, take Betty out to one of his usual late-night spots nearby, maybe split a cab home. He was cleaning up his station when he noticed Archie walking slowly towards him.

“Hey, Jug.” He was smiling, but there was a weird, forced quality to his usual cheeriness. “Uhh, you heading off now?”

“Yeah, I was gonna take Betty out, actually,” Jughead replied, giving the counter a final wipedown. “You seen her around?”

“Um, technically, yes.”

His tone made Jughead look up. “‘Technically’?”

“Well, _I_ haven’t, but I know where she is.” He hesitated. “Or... Josie does.”

“Okay,” Jughead replied slowly. “So… where is she?”

Archie’s next words came out very fast. “Look, man, I had no idea, but someone’s with her--”

“ _Where is she, Arch_?”

Archie sighed. “In the bathroom. She’s drunk. And throwing up.”

Jughead could have thrown something. “Are you serious?”

“Sorry, dude, but they were doing shots, and--”

“I don’t want to fucking hear it, Andrews,” Jughead said, angrily pulling his apron off. “Jesus. You couldn’t look out for her while _I_ looked after your girlfriend’s buddies?”

“Hey, man, I didn’t know the two of you’d been drinking before this,” Archie said defensively. “Otherwise I would’ve kept her off the tequila.”

Jughead fumed, but Archie did have a point. He and Betty had been drinking all evening. A sudden pang of guilt stabbed him.

“Where is she?”

“I took her to the staff bathroom,” Archie replied. “Josie’s with her.”

Jughead marched towards the bathroom. As he walked up, he heard Josie murmuring soothing sounds and Betty’s muted cough, which was mostly directed into the toilet bowl.

She was on her knees. Josie was right behind her, looking guilty as hell. It was a surreal moment; he barely listened to the radio, and even _he_ had heard Josie’s latest single. And now here she was, standing behind the girl he’d been thinking of taking out tonight, helping her throw up. It was a surreal moment, in a night that had already been high on the surreal.

“It was my fault, Jughead,” Josie volunteered apologetically. “I had no idea she’d already had something tonight.”

“No, it’s… it’s okay,” he replied, kneeling down. Betty’s eyes were closed as she moaned incoherently against the toilet seat. Jughead scolded himself for thinking she still managed to look gorgeous, even in the state she was in. “Hey, um, thanks for looking out for her.”

“No problem,” she said, carefully pulling Betty’s hair back. “She threw up just then. She was looking pretty pale outside, and we just managed to make it in here before… well, you know.”

“Thank goodness.” A sudden thought struck him, making him see red. He tried to keep his voice as even as possible. “Do you think someone… like - no offense to your friends and all - but I really have to know _now_ if there was possibly something in her drink.”

“No, no, and no offense taken - that’s a totally fair question.” She sighed. “We just had _a lot_ of shots. Your boss is very generous.”

“Yeah, well, he likes you a lot,” he muttered. “Has she been drinking water?”

“I don’t think so.”

Jughead pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. He checked his watch. It was getting late. It suddenly struck him that he had no idea where Betty lived, or worked, and he also had no idea who he could call to take her home. He suddenly felt frantic.

“Do you know where her phone is?” he asked.

“Right here,” Josie replied, passing it to him. He winced at the blank screen: her battery was flat.

“Shit,” he whispered.

“Phone dead?”

“Yep.”

“Okay, well… do you know any of her friends?” Josie asked. “Someone you could call to pick her up?”

“No, we just met... today, actually,” he said.

“Yeah, I know - she told me.” Josie had a faint smile playing on her lips. “Couldn’t tell, though.”

 _Neither could I,_ Jughead thought to himself. He was still alarmed by how quickly he’d felt comfortable with her. He was obviously surprised and honoured by what she had shared about her mother, but quite frankly shocked by what _he_ had divulged of himself. Was he just lonely? Was that it? Was that why he was feeling so crazy about her? 

But this wasn’t the time for that. 

“Has she been responsive at least?” he asked Josie.

“Yeah, but not very coherent,” she replied. “She sounds like she’s half-asleep. I think… I think she’s just tired, to be honest. Which really wasn’t a good thing with the amount of alcohol she’s had.”

Jughead turned to her. “Betty?” he murmured. He turned to Josie. “Thank you. I can handle this.”

“You sure?”

He nodded towards the outside. “Archie will be looking for you.”

“Alright.” She stood up. “Hey, uh, for all it’s worth, I’m sorry about the rain check.”

“Rain check?”

“On your date. With Betty.”

Jughead narrowed his eyes at her. “Wha-- we... didn’t... _exactly_ have plans--”

“Eh. Plans shmans.” She smiled and shrugged at him. “It seemed like it was going that way tonight.”

He wore a slight grin as she walked off. He turned to Betty. Her eyes were fluttering open, and she seemed to recognise him. He knelt on the floor beside her.

“Hey,” he whispered. “You know where you are?”

“Mmm.” Her voice was hoarse. “Bar.”

“Okay. Okay, good. That’s a start.” She groaned and leaned her head against him. Somehow, she didn’t even smell like she’d been sick. She smelled faintly like jasmine. _Quit smelling her, Jones._ “Do you want to go home now?”

Betty nodded and closed her eyes. 

“Okay, well, I’m gonna need you to tell me where...” He took out his own phone, and opened up his Uber app. “Actually, you know what? You don’t even need to. Just point it out roughly on the map and I’ll figure it out from there. That sound good to you?”

Silence.

“Betty?”

Silence again.

Jughead looked down. She had fallen asleep on his shoulder.

“No, no, no no.” He nudged her. “Betty? Come on, Betty, please. We really need to get you home.”

She responded with a soft snore.

“Fuck,” he muttered. _What do I do now?_

Jughead quickly assessed his options. Betty was drunk, that was for sure. He had no idea where she lived. He supposed that he could rummage through her bag, check her license and find her address, but even if he did that, he could hardly leave her alone now, not when she was unconscious and risked hurting herself - or worse, throwing up and choking on her own vomit.

No. He had to stay with her. But where could they go?

He supposed… they could stay at the Crane & Boxer. Archie sure looked guilty enough that he’d let them sleep over at the place, maybe even throw in a few blankets and some food. The back office had a couch that Jughead sometimes slept in when he was too tired to make it home, but he didn’t even want to think about the last time that was cleaned. He wasn’t going to subject Betty to that.

They could probably sleep in the bar itself, but it was nowhere near comfortable - the seats were hard vintage leather, and the booths weren’t big enough to lay across in.

He thought about calling Jellybean for help. She was a nurse, and she would know what to do. But it was now Christmas Eve, which meant that the Emergency Room at the Brooklyn Hospital Centre would be packed with idiot tourists and local mishaps. Maybe he could just wait at her place...?

Then he remembered. Ricky would be home. He shuddered. _Hell, no._

He kept racking his brain, but it always kept circling back to the same conclusion.

He looked down at Betty, felt her body breathing slowly against his as they sat on the cold bathroom floor. She looked so vulnerable. They’d only known each other for a couple of hours, but he couldn’t stomach the idea of her being unsafe tonight.

And selfishly, part of him was also glad that this wasn’t the end of the night. That whatever happened from here on in, he’d see her in the morning. And maybe they could talk again.

 _Alright,_ he thought. This was happening. 

He was bringing Betty Cooper back to his apartment.

…

“Hey, you Forsythe?” 

Jughead made a mental note to change his name on Uber. It was getting too weird having these drivers pull up and call him by his grandfather’s name. “Yeah. You Benny?”

“Yeah, bro, hop on in.”

Jughead adjusted Betty’s weight on his arm as he put her stuff in. The pavement was slippery, and it was a challenge getting her up the stairs to begin with. Archie and Josie had tried to help him, but in the end, all they could really do was shine a light on the dark staircase as he carried her out. 

Well, _Josie_ did, anyway. Archie just whooped and hollered at Jughead and told him that his bicep curls were working (after which he was promptly told to fuck off).

“Hey, Betty? We’re getting you back to my place, alright?” She was mostly unresponsive, and Jughead knew that he didn’t have to say anything - this was, after all, necessary for her safety - but still, he felt she had the right to know what was happening. 

She only groaned in response, but that was enough. Jughead felt a little more optimistic. He had seen his own father drunk enough times to know that she was somewhat conscious at this point. He prayed that in the madness of the moment, she knew that she was safe. Gingerly, he placed her into the backseat and clicked her seatbelt in.

“Hey, you got a hot date tonight, huh?” The driver laughed crudely and reached back to give Jughead a fist bump, eyeing Betty with open lust.

But Jughead only stared at the man’s proffered hand. “That’s fucking disgusting, man. She’s passed out.” He wanted to punch the guy, and probably would have, had he not had Betty to look after. He made a mental note to report the sleazebag. “Just drive. Don’t even fucking _look_ at her.”

The driver held his hands up defensively and started driving. Betty slumped onto Jughead’s shoulder as they turned a corner (a little sharper than necessary, he noted), and he put an arm around her to steady her. He tried to ignore her burrowing into his shoulder as he grabbed the plastic bag he’d stuffed into his pocket in case of an emergency, and held it tightly, anticipating that she might throw up again.

 _Come on, Betty,_ he thought desperately. _Just a few more minutes._

…

Betty managed to hold on. The driver was curt and aggressive when Jughead exited the car. He was on the brink of telling him that he’d already reported him to Uber, but with a barely conscious Betty in his arms, he thought it wise to avoid a fight.

Jughead’s place was a ground-floor apartment just off Flatbush Avenue. It wasn’t too bad - the heating functioned most of the time, and the rats only visited occasionally. It was all he could afford when he finished college, and usually, he was fine with it; after all, he had put up with much worse. Looking at it now, however, he cringed at the idea of Betty waking up to his bachelor mess inside, and wished he had something a little nicer. Something that was actually functional.

But it was home. He had managed to make a home out of it, which was certainly something after a lifetime of hopping from place to place with his dad. He’d even deigned to set up a Christmas tree of sorts for the first time ever, in a fit of territoriality - a set of red fairy lights he’d bought at a discount from a nearby bodega, shaped into a zig-zag on his wall that faintly resembled a tree. 

He opened the door and was met by the stark glow of the lights, having forgotten to switch them off before leaving for work. Laying Betty down on the couch, he made his way to the bedroom to try and clear his bed for her.

It was a mess. His typewriter was right in the middle of a pile of papers - some crumpled, some blank, some doodled on - as well as discarded clothes, dog-eared books and empty fast food bags. 

He was disgusted with himself. Groaning at his untidiness, he tried to clear the bed as best as he could. He had just braced his knee up on the mattress to reach across the bed when he felt something cold soaking his leg. He looked down. 

It was an old, unfinished paper cup of coffee.

“Shit!” he exclaimed, jumping up to try and contain the mess. But it was too late. The cold coffee was now soaking his sheets, his books and some of his typed work. He had planned to put Betty on his bed, while he slept on the couch. Now, it looked like _he_ was sleeping on the floor. 

Sighing, he walked back to the living room to check on her, sitting on the floor next to the couch. She was sleeping soundly, and he would have left her alone had he not noticed that her boots were still on. His dad had always told him not to pass out drunk with his shoes on when he left for college - something about not getting vomit on them. He, being bookish and anti-social, never needed that advice, but strangely, it made sense to him now. 

Carefully, he took a hold of one of Betty’s feet, unzipping the long zipper on the side and pulling the boot off gently. He smiled down at the goofy reindeer print on her socks as he moved on to the other boot. When she first walked into the bar, he could have hardly guessed that she wore these - that she had a lighter side to her. She was so strait-laced and distant, so seemingly convinced that no-one wanted to hear from her or know about her day.

But _he_ did. He wanted to know more. He wanted to know _her._ And as he covered her with his jacket (his coffee-wet duvet no longer being an option), he thought of the evening that had passed. He thought of how he felt when he was with her. How easy it was to talk, to connect, to open up.

And most of all, he thought of how things would have gone tonight. Had they not been interrupted. 

Had they actually kissed.

His phone buzzed. He picked it up. A message from Jellybean. There was another one, too, from earlier - from Archie.

He opened the one from Archie first. As it turned out, it was a series of near-indecipherable messages.

_I tjifk i lpve josie_

_Im gna thll her i love herrrrr_

_Will youu be mu best man_

He was clearly drunk. Jughead had no idea how somehow managed to be drunk enough to befuddle predictive text, but there it was: Archie Andrews had somehow broken the system.

He laughed quietly to himself, not wanting to wake Betty up. He then opened his sister’s message. 

_Please pick up Hot Dog tomorrow. Might stay over at mom’s for a while._

_Ricky’s being an ass._

Jughead’s good humour immediately dissolved. His head dropped back to the couch, brushing against Betty’s arm. 

He read the message again. It couldn’t have been more different to Archie’s, and yet somehow, they _felt_ the same to him. He had followed the current of Betty’s green eyes all night, letting himself be pulled into the undertow. But Archie and Jellybean were like two glaring red lights in the distance, warning him to slow down before he went full speed ahead. Archie’s wild recklessness, Jellybean’s volatility… this was exactly what he had always wanted to avoid.

Maybe he didn’t just need to slow down. Maybe he needed to _crash_ back down to earth.

He turned around to look at Betty. He really wasn’t kidding himself when he’d decided earlier that she was beautiful. Here, in the warm glow of the lights in his living room, she was practically evanescent.

But it was her voice, her mind, her words that drew him to her. Like a whisper on a breeze, their last conversation - right before they nearly kissed - came back to him.

_I’m not much, but that’s gotta count for something, right?_

_You’re more than that, Jughead._

He put his phone away and lay down on the carpet, promptly falling asleep, his mind full of her.

...

In his dreams that night, he was driving. Speeding like a maniac, running every red light along the way, yet somewhat unscathed.

A hand held his, oddly calm. They were going to crash anytime, right?

_Right?_

…

Jughead woke up with a start, his body shuddering at the suddenness of his dreams dropping off. It was still dark outside. 

He was going to check up on Betty when he realised that her arm had fallen off the couch. And that her hand lay warm in his own open palm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, there it is. Finally the theme behind the title! The red lights are several things in this fic; obviously, Jughead's little Christmas tree, but also, the red lights in both Betty and Jughead's minds, the things that are giving them pause before they fall headlong into each other. It's all happening very fast, but they're both smart, rational people. Of course there are red lights. Of course there's that tension of whether or not they allow themselves that risk.
> 
> ...
> 
> Whew. This took me a while, and I am so, so thankful for your patience. I am also so aware of how crazy it seems that I'm already stalling with updates on CHAPTER 3. Please rest assured that the rest of the chapters will be a little more regular. My apologies for keeping you waiting.
> 
> This chapter was a lot of transition and background work, but it felt very necessary. I still hope it was an enjoyable read. There's soooo much happening between and INSIDE OF these two, and I really felt like I had to dig into that.
> 
> On some characters: 1) I must confess that I really love this Josie. 2) The Ricky in this fic is Ricky DeSanto! He's obviously not a murderous child in this fic - just an asshole boyfriend. 
> 
> The thing with being drunk and having your shoes on is a real thing, apparently! It's a saying!
> 
> I also checked Uber's website to ensure that Jughead followed the correct protocols in reporting driver harassment. Uber skeeziness is never okay, kids. Report that shit.


End file.
